


(in)sane

by sweaterlou



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood and Gore, Character Death, Gen, Insanity, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-12
Updated: 2013-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-29 04:08:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1000693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweaterlou/pseuds/sweaterlou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>dean wasn't insane, he was just broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(in)sane

some people would say that he was crazy. that his thoughts, they were twisted, images that the normal human or demon couldn’t handle, popping into his head as he made his cup of coffee in the brisk morning. and latin words always streaming out of his tongue and into the air, with shaking hands and ever pointed eyes locked onto everything that moved. some people were scared of him, brought their child closer to them as he walked by, knife showing from his belt. and most would dash away quickly when they saw him on the sidewalk, talking at nothing and rubbing the dirt from the brick buildings between his fingers thoughtfully. and some would even say he was the devil, when he would walk into the store, body and clothes drenched in staining red.  
but dean winchester was none and all of them of them at the same time. he quieted their hushed whispers and long stares with pictures of the fallen, who were inside him, deep in his heart. and he replaced the faces of strangers, whose eyes shook with fear as they looked on at his hanging form, that was always on autopilot, soul too damaged to work for itself, with the ones of whom he loved, and lost. and he spoke to them, as if they were still there, telling them about his day, or a new case he had heard about. and, well, it wasn’t his fault that he forgot to clean up after a hunt before walking into stop and shop.  
it wasn’t that he was dangerous, or insane, or a serial killer. it was just that he was broken. and being broken can cause you to become lost, not crazy.  
dean held the world record for being the most broken, inside and out. his shitty apartment walls held dusty pictures, of memories, that had slipped his grasp, and crashed into reality, his neck always held that stupid necklace his stupid little brother gave him as a stupid christmas gift when they were young, and alone with three channels of static on the tv and bowls filled with dry cereal that tore up the insides of their cheeks. but dean wore it, with it’s stupid horns digging into his tightened chest at night, as wet sobs came pouring from his leaking soul., because it was the only thing he had left of sam, the rest of his things burned with his body inside the motel seven months ago.  
and the only thing that hung in his closet, was a charcoal covered trenchcoat, with sleeves torn off, and a blood stained hole on the chest flap. dean nevered opened that door, which had been locked and lined with salt and angel symbols, because he wanted to preserve the essence of the angel with oceaned eyes and reaching hands, begging to be loved. he had killed a girl, who he payed $25 dollars an hour to have rough sex with him, because she had unlocked that door, thinking it was the bathroom, and crack that door open with a gush of cool wind and dank, old smell. it took dean about six seconds to pull his gun out and shoot her pretty blonde head. he burned her naked body, and tightly sealed the door again, with chocked lungs and the name he never said anymore rushing out into the empty room. he used the sex money he never payed for, to buy six bottles of vodka and a baggie of white gold from the guy behind the 7-11. he spent the night staring at the door, stomach full of relive and pain.  
his room was scattered with many things, from bobby’s hat, to garth’s jacket, that was still in the same place, where garth had thrown it quickly four months ago, before heading out to get them some dinner. if dean had known that some fucking teenage would be on the prowl, looking for cash with a knife in his hand, and would have set garth down and just listen to him talk all night. he really wishes he had.  
he only wore shirts, that once were john’s. and he always wears the tank top sam leant him that day of the fire. the only tie he ever allowed himself to wear, was cas’ silky blue tie, that had small splatters of blood dug into it. only listened to jo’s old ipod, and read only bobby’s books.  
dean wasn’t mentally ill, of course not. he wasn’t deranged because he had killed a total of fifty-three people who resembled someone he once knew. and he wasn’t psycho because he stayed up all night, talking to an empty bed, with visions of cas and sam sitting there.  
dean was perfectly fine, why wouldn’t he be? he was always surrounded by the people who had loved him, skeletons dug up and leaned against his wall, flesh still rotting on a few. and he poured seven cups of coffee, humming lowly to himself as whispers flickered through the room.

**Author's Note:**

> yeah so insane!dean and gore


End file.
